Mr. Potato
a.k.a., Spud Murphy
'I'll have another cigarette,'
as John Lennon (1940 – 1980) writ,
'And curse Sir Walter Raleigh (1552 – 1618)
he was such a stupid git.'
However,
(altho' to his cost)
it may have
gone to his head
(which, unluckily, later he lost),
Raleigh introduced
the noble potato
(the blight of Ireland)
into Britain — ca. 1586,
and what's more
tobacco it did eclipse,
so yes indeed, his is the face
that launched a thousand chips.
Ashby v White, if applied right.' With the script i do not
Comply' at the ballot will belie.) Remove misogeny from
On high..Why choose to be opressed? Once this reality
Is addressed.' Other lands should follow suit? Then your
Fate will not be moot.' (The no longer to be trusted)
Shall then really find they're busted.' So be ready from this
Day give them the boot.' Send them on their un-merry way.!
Oh farage do give it a rest..' at last things are more quiet
Yet you have to beat your chest.' How much did you cost?
Who has paid your price.? You turned your back and are
Part of the pack..While Tommy is stuck; in the jaws; of their
Vice..I ask you hold that thought for a moment..If its a
Thing you can do? Or lock yourself in a small toilet for just
A fortnight or two..Maybe by the time you come out? there
Will be peace 'at least in ukraine' and Britain will be spared
Your iniquity? That way all sides get much gain.'
Come her! Go there!
Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff!
Do this! Do that!
Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff!
Eat seed! Find nut!
Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff!
Have chicks! Make fat!
Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff!
Through twig! Through leaf!
Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff!
My song! I sing!
Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff!
On wing! On foot!
Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff!
It must be Spring!
Chiff chaff! Chiff chaff!
I wonder.
I wonder what will happen when
all the English dictionaries are burnt
and Shakespeare is abolished
as FAR RIGHT and Racist,
and when the Beatles are
vilified for 'She Loves You'
when it should have
been 'they them love you'.
When the battle of Britain
Begs an unreserved apology.
When the British inventions
Are cast aside as imperial luck
When Europe forgets as the Russians
Have, who saved them in WW2
When people are imprisoned for
Love of these islands and free
Speech is abolished and punished
But this horror won’t happen tomorrow
No, not tomorrow, or the day after
But don’t feel reassured or complacent
Because they arrived months ago
And we all must be ready to pay.
David Cox 02/02/25
On Englands streets its people gather in ones twos
Threes in their thousands for this matter.' To stand and
March to celebrate the very essence that made their country great.' There will be burghers plumbers tailors and
Farmers; surveyors councillors barbers, and no harmers
Ex police and soldiers too.' Professors lecturers and maybe you? Clever and not so ( inclusion at its finest) many
British and united' soldiers may have died to achieve none the less.' Such
Sacrifice will guide them on' to teach, care; to nuture and they will be their
Finest.' They will many songs, words of hope no doubt will ring, may tomorrow be
Pleasant with great purpose at this big London gathering.!
Could it transpire? To set a nation on fire.? Could Lowe drop
The boom.? If it happens? It must be soon.' In the cauldron
Of insanity in this un-normal and dystopian governed inhumanity.' Can the damo-clean blade be turned upon who
Had it made in turn? Strike the iron thats been made hot.' Be bold
And decisive and tear out the rot.' Show your mettle and
The people will cheer.!! Banish any doubt or shadows or
Fear.' Draw your battle line and raise a standard.' Trust the
People to know how big is the gambit..Its halfway to freedom now
Get ready to push.' In true leadership burn retreats worn out
Bridge.' Forward they are waiting.! for an hour such as this
From dissillusion raise their spirits, offer integrity and then
Go with it.' Ask for support lay the truth out that is the all.' Unite and
Conquer as its been done before.'
At our junior school in Yorkshire.
I had turned up late for class three times
So our strict class teacher, called Miss Howarth
Sent me to the head mistress to be strapped.
Miss Kershaw then gave me six of the best.
I started crying from the stinging pain.
Miss told me that if I don’t stop crying
She then would give me another thrashing.
She told me that men should not show feelings.
Be British and stand up with some backbone.
This was back in nineteen fifty seven
But I still remember the stinging pain.
suddenly a commotion
a score of gulls screaming
wings flapping, gliding, wheeling
then within half a minute
away into the sky behind the houses
what and why I asked myself
but found no answer, as usual
a pattern of small copses
gaunt, unloved trees, perilously
leaning against each other
roots drowning in pools of muddy water
picture of neglect and decay
and then in their midst
a carpet of bluebells
field of sheep
field of horses
field of crows
field of cows
field of rabbits
field of wood-pigeons
field of barren apple-trees
field of bare earth
field of undrained water
field of hope
field of neglect
fields of Britain
On the cliff at the Worm’s Head
High above the horns of the bay
I see the surfers ride great waves
With horses’ manes
That ever fail, but never end
In the strong Atlantic surge
In the estuary at Dartmouth
Where the oyster boats dredge
Turning and drifting in slow shadow dance
Great nets of shells are hauled up
And poured out on to the decks
As I plunge upriver
Tacking along the wending Dart
With bent-puzzle oaks on either side
I hear a sudden hush descend
Upon a lonely river hythe
As time and air, smooth and still
Forever glide, like Mayflies
On cold, clear water
In the seaway by the port
With its unmistakable algal aroma
Of the British seashore
I hear the heavy horn of a freighter
That plies its path
And never sinks, yet ever diminishes
Beyond the waves
And far from the pier of the seaside town
Where sandpipers probe
In spiral casts
I hear the penthal call of the curlew
Like silver flourishes on a black cloud
That never moves, but holds dominion
In the cold morning air.
just like foxes they arise from dark places
they come to fight and scavenge
As they start to climb they become stronger in a pack.
the power they have goes over their heads
there's no way they'll turn back,
its a two way game
and there putting us through a test
as the rise of inflation gets higher,
were left with nothing more or less
They might be winning the race now
but they forgot
the story of the Hare and fox.
As cunning daredevils fight for greed
its The hare in the end that always succeeds.
Across the city the emperor called
For recruits to join the legions
Travel to new and strange lands
And conquer for covetous reasons
As sun beat down they trained their men
To fight for colonisation,
Taking with them skills and knowledge
Introducing urbanisation.
Past mountains, lakes and plains they marched
Battalions stood United
Crossing countries, rivers, sea,
Arriving uninvited.
Invasion, yet they brought with them
Progression, innovation;
Technology since lost in ages dark
Transforming a whole nation.
Roads of stone, heated floors
Domestic sanitation,
Walls dividing tribes and clans
Fuelling aggravation.
Yet Britain’s climate, wet and dour,
It’s warriors and chief,
Sent Rome’s great fighters fleeing home
Struck dumb in disbelief,
That this small nation could be such
A hostile, retched place,
And Rome needed protecting
From the Jutes and Angles race.
So after Constantine’s withdrawal
Britain re-emerged anew,
Rebirthing of a greater nation,
Than the one the romans slew.
Left behind their legacy
Culture, architecture
But no longer an unwitting, oppressed,
Out-posted prefecture.
They were young starry-eyed, yet too soon so many had to die.
Brave to a fault with wanderlust of youth, no challenge spurned however seemingly uncouth.
In azure blue skies with only clouds as friends, they sought their prey through war's myopic lens.
No quarter given and none spared by their foes, incandescent bullets superseding schoolyard blows.
Skill and verve no match for destiny's roulette, to survive another day an all too losing bet.
Still they flew and fought with all their might, for love of country protecting it from blight.
Summoned by that bell with its strident chilling tones, pervading every pore of their worn and tired bones.
Verve and duty each relying on the other, no place to hide but raw courage as their cover.
For all those boys that fast turned into men, saving our isles from sweeping plain to gleaming glen,
We shall remember you forever in our lore, the few that gave so much and often so much more.
Why do these guys quit before seventy?
After achievements Life on Earth empty!
There was to be a Macgregor Laird:
Before sixty-one years to rest laid...
For my avid interest in History,
I could not but alight on his story
With its private message from Greatness
"No, Mystery, no Magic: Eagerness!"
What had he shrewdly done: John Beecroft?
In their Britain left behind a voice soft
To in far-off lands hold her goals aloft
While him Portugal, Spain and, sure, France scoffed;
In West Africa's Fernando Po
Seeing that The Non British did lines toe:
In Nigeria's captured Bight of Benin
Ensuring that his men got their Quinine;
I reckon in the close Bight of Biafra
Giving out British bags not of raffia!
I could have for John Beecroft my hat doffed,
Just that when I last tried a patriot coughed.
The British royal family is front and center this weekend. How unusual is that?
The empire may be gone, but it’s time to recall its ghost, dust it off and invoke the ancient spell of monarchy.
A coronation, The original dog & pony show - God’s kingly sinecure. I can’t even remember the last one.
You have to know who your great, great, great, grandfather was to be nobility-class smug or to don those getups, with medals that would have made Caesar blush and Attila laugh.
The cast is familiar, if somewhat balding, The too-old king, his - whatever -wife.
I can’t help mourning Diana. Accident, treachery or karma, grown men cried at her passing, Shakespeare’s darkened heavens blazed in sorrow and, eventually, even the gray queen bowed her head.
There’s no more honor, in 2023, and if there’s any glory, its light has grown as dim as the glitter of gold.
The fact that the royals are better than us, is axiomatic. Not morally superior, of course. That’s the Pope’s job. The royals are like Britain’s Mickey Mouse, and any civilized man, who’d strike at that, would have to be a fool.
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